


The Purity Myth

by harper_m



Category: zombie strippers
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-24
Updated: 2009-08-24
Packaged: 2017-10-21 07:21:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/222423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harper_m/pseuds/harper_m
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lt. Ryker has unfinished business at the Rhino. So does Jessy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Purity Myth

It’s ironic that she managed to survive in a den full of zombie strippers and their much less intelligent male minions only to be shot in the back in a dark alley.

“It’s not Surrealism,” is all she can think to say.

There’s the slightest change in pressure where the muzzle of the gun is jammed into her back; she finds it ironic, also, that her lack of knowledge might actually save her life.

“What?”

“It was a French movement, I think. Not Surrealism, though, even if that was primarily Parisian in influence.”

The hard jab of the gun against her ribs cuts the thought short.

“You will explain to me what the fuck you’re talking about.” The voice is hard, but definitely female.

“I was trying to think of what it was called, you know, when you have heightened irony manifest itself through the tragic.”

She’s spun around and slammed against the brick behind her hard enough to leave her breathless. It takes a moment to get her bearings, but when she does, she sighs in relief.

“Oh, it’s you.”

“Do I know you?”

“Yeah,” Jessy says, waving her hand in a vague gesture. “From earlier tonight. The strip club. Zombie threat to humanity and all that.”

The other woman squints, takes a menacing step forward as if to scrutinize Jessy, then smiles. “Oh yeah. I remember you.”

It becomes sort of awkward then, like running into an acquaintance at the mall. They’ve both got places to be, but it feels like it would be rude to just rush off.

“So…” the woman drawls.

Jessy offers a weak smile. “Yeah. Crazy times, huh.”

“Right. Crazy.”

“Yeah, crazy,” she repeats, then shakes her head, because she wouldn’t doubt that the French had a movement for this too. “So, I appreciate your valiant effort in helping to destroy the zombie hordes, but I really should be going.”

“It’d probably be safer for you at home.”

Jessy nods, lips tightening, and doesn’t bother correcting the assumption that she is A) interested in the safer option or B) actually going to go home. “Probably.”

“Goodnight then, ma’am.”

“Goodnight.”

It only takes them a few seconds to realize that they’re both walking in the same direction, and that that direction is the direction of the club.

“I thought you were going home.”

“Right,” Jessy sighs, the shortest charade in history now over. “Look, sergeant or corporal or whoever you are, I’ve got some things to do and I don’t need an armed escort. So, again, thanks for saving me from certain death at the hands of an undead mob and for not shooting me earlier, but I think we can part ways now.”

“It’s Lieutenant, actually. Lt. Ryker.”

“Fine, Lt. Ryker…”

“You can just call me Ryker.”

“Okay, Ryker, do we see eye to eye, here?”

Ryker nods congenially, though the gesture is mitigated by the gun hanging loosely from her hand. “I’m not following you.”

“No, you’re clearly following me.”

“Not at all, ma’am.”

Frustrated, she growls, “Call me Jessy.”

“Either way, Jessy, I’m still not following you.”

“That seems patently untrue.”

“We can solve this problem real easy. I’m going to the Rhino. Where are you going?”

“The Rhino,” Jessy says, frowning.

“Maybe you’re following me.”

She’s not sure what prompts her to wrap her hand around the arm of a trained killer and drag them both to a stop, but she does. “Why are you going back to the Rhino?”

She thinks Ryker’s on the verge of cold-cocking her, so she follows up the rather indignant question with a winsome smile. The level of violence in the other woman’s eyes is downgraded, and she ends up with only an irritated, “Why are you?”

“Because my Nana stills needs a colostomy bag, and that asshole Ian made a fuckload of money by facilitating the zombification of several otherwise quite lovely and already very talented strippers just to feed the fetish he created in a group of sick and twisted patrons so desensitized by the ever present sexuality on display in our culture that they found the notion of the dancing undead arousing, and it’s still in there somewhere. On an ethical scale, my grandma’s need to shit in a bag far outweighs any sort of provenance the government might try to claim.” She pauses for a second to take a deep breath, before finishing fiercely, “I’m going to get that money.”

Ryker considers this for a long moment before shrugging. “Okay then.”

“That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”

“Yeah. Get the money. I don’t care.”

Jessy glares at her suspiciously. “You’re not going to try to stop me?”

“Nah. I don’t care about that.”

“Oh,” Jessy murmurs, nonplussed. “Why are you going back then?”

“It’s that whole attitude of apathy thing. Just because I work for a soulless government contractor as part of their elite paramilitary services arm doesn’t mean that I want to bend over and take it for the man. So, I’m going to go back and kill that scientist motherfucker.”

“You what?”

“The others might have bought into his bullshit, but I’m tired of the cycle. Cause a catastrophe and clean it up. Profitable, yes, but I don’t like what he was implying. I’m going to show that motherfucker I have agency.”

Jessy opens her mouth to ask for a clarification, but Ryker shuts her down with a glare. “I stopped Armageddon. Literally, and I’m not talking about that little zombie problem we took care of tonight. I killed Satan with a sharp stick; I’m not going to back down because some egomaniacal pencil pusher tells us there’s money to be made in the zombie removal business. That’s the kind of complacency that threatens to ruin the good old US of A.”

There’s a long moment of silence before Jessy mumbles, “Okay then. Color me quite literally taken aback.”

Ryker crowds into her space again, the menacing glare once more in place, only this time it feels more serious. “I take it we have an understanding. I kill the scientist, you steal some money.”

“An agreement,” Jessy says, nodding. “Sounds good. My Nana gets a colostomy bag and you murder a conscienceless scientist. I think that’s workable.”

The clanking is the first sign that the otherwise agreeable plan might get way more complicated.

“There’s something familiar about that,” Jessy murmurs, head tilted to the side as she listens intently. “It’s got a slow, methodical quality to it that makes me unaccountably nervous.”

Ryker pins her with a glare. “I thought you were a stripper.”

“Well, technically I’m unemployed.”

“Still, at some point you were a stripper.”

“And?”

“And so what’s with the big words?”

“I’ll thank you to not make presuppositions based on stereotypes.” Jessy crosses her arms over her chest, and returns Ryker’s glare with one of her own. “Besides, that ominous scraping sound? I’m pretty sure I recognize it.”

“As?”

“The slow creep of the reanimated.” Jessy pauses uncertainly and offers a faltering smile. “They sort of… shuffle.”

“Negative. We eliminated the zombie threat.”

This is why she’s never dated military types, Jessy thinks, then offers, “Maybe you missed one.”

“Doubtful.”

“Okay, then, how about this. I’ll hold your gun for you while you go have a look-see.”

Ryker’s scowl is so deep Jessy fears it might leave behind permanent creases. “No one touches my gun.”

“Fine, then. Think in hypotheticals.” Jessy is about to ask whether or not Ryker knows what those are when she hears the creak of strained metal; Ryker’s fingers are nearly white where they’re wrapped around her gun, and it’s more than enough for Jessy to rein in the sarcasm. “Do you have enough confidence in your assertion that the zombie threat has been completely eradicated to enter that building without your gun?”

“I don’t go anywhere without my gun.”

Jessy sighs. “Okay, but imagine you did.”

“I don’t.”

“But if you did…”

“Idle hands are the devil’s playthings.”

“I thought you killed the devil.”

“Affirmative. It’s an idiom.” Jessy can almost swear she hears a smile in Ryker’s voice when she says, “You do know what that is, don’t you?”

“God, you’re almost as bad as Davis.”

“Davis?”

“My boyfriend. No, my ex-boyfriend. I’m tired of his ridiculous double standards and his unreasonable expectations of purity.”

Ryker’s got her hand on the door when she calls back over her shoulder, “Sounds like a real winner.”

Jessy’s voice goes catty. “Like you wouldn’t believe. It was all, ‘Jessy, have more respect for yourself than to take your clothes off in front of strange men who have no regard for your spotless and untouched inner core.’ and ‘Your purity is the true mark of your womanhood. Don’t surrender that and tarnish yourself forever.’ And then the zombies come, and all that altar of purity bullshit doesn’t seem to matter so much any more. Instead, it was, ‘We’ll do it in the backdoor. I won’t even put it all the way in. You can still be a virgin.’ Like taking it up the ass is in no way a threat to my highly overrated virginity.”

They’re already in the Rhino when Ryker says dryly, “Legions of gay men would agree.”

“I don’t know why I even bothered with that fucker.” She pauses, looks around, and wrinkles her nose. “Bang up clean up job they did here.”

The floor is still slick with coagulating blood and assorted bits of gore. Limbs, often of undeterminable origin and variety, are scattered haphazardly, some more decomposed than others. Jessy thinks she recognizes a stiletto, foot still attached, leaning against the pole onstage.

“I hear growling.”

Jessy’s voice echoes in the openness of the room, and she winces.

“Mastication,” she continues, when Ryker pulls her gun up to her shoulder and drops into a crouch, military training rising to the fore.

When Ryker finally speaks again, her voice is a harsh bark. “You should stay here.”

“You’d leave the woman without a weapon behind?”

“How about you wait outside then?”

“I’d rather we just kill the zombies, get the money, murder your scientist, and call it a night.”

She gets no answer and decides that’s answer enough.

They pick their way across the room gingerly, avoiding the larger pools of blood and the occasional pile of intestines. Ryker’s in the lead, occasionally giving her hand signals that mean nothing to Jessy, but she watches intently even though she follows none of them, just in case there’s a blatantly obvious ‘run for your life’ one stuck in there somewhere.

“How many do you remember?”

It takes Jessy a moment figure out what she’s being asked. “I saw the soon to be murdered scientist and three people in biohazard suits. I don’t know if more came after we left.” The thought hits her suddenly, and she wonders why she hasn’t had it before. “Shouldn’t we call for back-up?”

“Unnecessary.”

Jessy thinks about making a joke about how brevity isn’t the soul of anything when one is in danger of being torn limb from limb and eaten, but she figures it’s best to let the paramilitary soldier focus.

They find them in the lap dance room.

“Typical,” Jessy mutters.

Two of them have overpowered the third. They’ve managed to chew through the biohazard suit which, from the looks of the shredded material, required a fair bit of effort. One of them has an arm; he’s worrying the meat from the bone as if he’s gotten hold of a fairly succulent chicken wing. The other has gone straight for the gut.

The shots crack off in rapid fire, two quick bursts that leave a splatter of brain and skull smeared against the wall behind them. Ryker moves in quickly, firing another round into the head of the slowly twitching, half-eaten member of the clean-up crew, and it’s become so common of a sight by now that Jessy doesn’t even flinch.

“I told you I have this under control.”

It goes to hell then, because that’s how these things work.

She doesn’t even have time to duck; the heartfelt keen – really, she thinks, more like an off-key ode to the desire the creature feels to consume her flesh – is the only notification she gets, and it’s entirely too close. Ryker just squares up and fires like her head isn’t centimeters away from the bullets whizzing past with a buzz, so it’s probably a good thing she’s frozen in place with her fear.

There’s a wet smack behind her, but the moaning doesn’t stop.

“Fuck,” Ryker says, and then there’s clicking in front of her, and it’s more ominous than clicking has any right to be. She starts to wave her hand wildly, the ‘run for your life’ signal Jessy was looking for earlier. Conscious thought returns only when she’s halfway across the room, slipping on the tail end of a small intestine.

Ryker catches her before she hits the floor, and Jessy follows her blindly.

“Gun’s jammed,” Ryker grunts out, her grip on Jessy’s wrist tight enough that Jessy thinks she can feel the bones grinding together.

Jessy can’t help the hint of panic in her voice. “I thought you worked for a well compensated government contractor? Where’s the quality control?”

They’re flying up a flight of stairs, bumping off of walls and skidding around corners, when Jessy sees something she recognizes.

“In here.”

Ryker nearly pulls her arm out of its socket, not quite willing to follow the ex-stripper’s lead, but Jessy is unrelenting.

It’s Ian’s office, mounted animal heads and all.

“I don’t know if any of it’s left, but he had a small arsenal stashed over here.”

There’s not much left of it, just some much too large, long-barreled thing, but Ryker seems satisfied.

“Overcompensator,” Jessy mutters as Ryker holds it up, peering down into the chamber. At Ryker’s sideways glance, she adds, “Not you.”

“It’s a revolver. Six shots, but I’ll only need one.”

“And is there a plan?”

“That was the plan. That part where I’ll only need one shot? That was it.”

“You know what? Be all macho and stupid. I don’t care.” It occurs to Jessy that she’s in reach of her objective. “I’m going to get what I came for anyway, and if you getting torn into tiny, bite-sized pieces is what it takes to distract the zombie long enough for me to make my escape, then so be it.”

Ryker’s look of exasperation is the first expression she’s had the entire night that Jessy’s found in any way relatable.

It looked like Ian had always been prepared to cut and run, because she finds a couple of duffel bags of money already half-stuffed. It doesn’t take her long to fill them the rest of the way, the zip barely closing over the crumpled bills; she feels an immense sense of satisfaction at seeing them, though, as if the events of the past few days have been, if not worth it, at least well compensated.

“We’ll draw him in,” Ryker says suddenly, eyes fixed on the door.

“In here, you mean?”

“It’ll take him a while to get through that door. He busts through and I pop him. Simple as that.”

It does sound ridiculously simple when Ryker puts it that way, but Jessy’s had more than enough experience with zombies to worry about the completeness of the plan.

But, whatever. Fuck it.

“Hey, after this is over, do you want to fuck?”

Ryker’s complete loss of concentration would have been funny had they not been trapped in a room filled with mounted animal heads, waiting on the arrival of a zombie determined to feast on their flesh.

“Do I what?”

“Want to fuck. I mean, I figure it’s okay to ask, since you’re military.”

“Didn’t you bitch me out about presuppositions or stereotypes or something earlier?”

Jessy rolls her eyes, then sighs. “What? I’m wrong?”

“That’s not the point.”

“See. Supposition confirmed. Now, do you?”

“There’s something about this situation you find sexy?”

“Not especially, but I have no desire to survive any more apocalyptic scenarios because I’m the simpering virgin. I’m getting tired of this bullshit notion that only the good girl makes it through, and that sexual intercourse bestows sluthood and certain doom. Puritanical devaluing of female worth chafes, you know. I’m more than my hymen.”

The door nearly bows in under the pounding fists of the remaining zombie, cutting off anything else she might have been planning to say.

It happens just like Ryker said it would, with the splintering of wood, the determined lurch of an undead evil scientist, and a gunshot so loud her ears won’t stop ringing.

“I feel much better,” Ryker says, rolling her shoulders as if she’s just released every ounce of tension she ever possessed. “You mind if I shoot him again, just for kicks?”

Jessy doesn’t have time to protest before Ryker does just that, setting off the ringing again.

It’s nearly a minute before she can hear again. Ryker’s still looking down at the mangled remains of the zombie scientist with an entirely too pleased grin on her face, and the duffel bags are starting to get a little heavy.

“Have you thought about it?” she asks, flexing her jaw as if that’s going to help the residual ringing at all.

“About what?” Ryker shouts back, clearly not as recovered as she is.

“Fucking.”

There’s only a second’s hesitation before she tosses the gun to the floor. “Yeah. Sounds good.”

“Oh, for fuck’s… Not here.”

Jessy looks around at the glassy eyed stares of the mounted animal heads and at the slowly leaking remains of the last zombie and shudders.

“Okay, picky. So where?”

She has to think about it for a moment. “Nana goes to bed early,” she finally offers, shrugging. “And she sleeps like the dead.”

“Sounds like a plan. From tonight on out, you survive all zombie incursions by your wit and skill alone. No more outdated notions of the mythically impregnable hymen to see you through.”

Since they’ve decided on a mutually agreeable course of action, Jessy figures it’s okay to admit to herself that Ryker’s self-satisfied swagger is a little cute.

Cute or not, it doesn’t hold back the moment of awkwardness that follows.

“So, to Nana’s?” Jessy suggests, embarrassed by the way her voice goes squeaky.

There’s an odd shuffle and a fleeting second of consternation, and then Jessy finds herself being swept off her feet.

“I didn’t want you to get zombie brains on your shoes,” Ryker says awkwardly, pulling Jessy up close to her chest.  
Jessy’s got a complaint on the tip of her tongue; this is just the sort of kid gloves treatment she’s always hated, but a look up at Ryker’s indulgent smirk cuts it short.

“Yeah,” she murmurs, swallowing hard as she slides down to her feet once they cross the threshold, hyperaware of the body she’s sliding against. “To Nana’s.”

Whatever, she thinks cynically, ignoring the feminist screaming in the back of her mind. After the week she’s had, she’s allowed at least one trope.


End file.
